Pickles & Dimes

Anyone who knows Jason and I understands that we will never be called “foodies.” We love food, don’t get us wrong, but we’re definitely not part of the crowd that enjoys dining at a different restaurant every time. And we’re not the couple that goes to places to try unique, hard-to-find items such as herb-encrusted sea tentacles. In fact, we are the couple who frantically tries to find the “regular” bread at Panera, because what’s up with their fancy stuff anyway?

Our simplistic nature toward food is simple: 1) Jason has texture/taste issues with all fruits and vegetables (except for potatoes) and 2) I am part Norwegian.

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So, Thursday night I got home about 15 minutes before Shauna and decided that before I went into the house to feed the cats, I’d take care of a few outdoor chores first. I took the remaining 5 bags full of leaves to the end of the driveway for trash pick up the next day, and filled all 3 of our bird feeders. While in the garage I decided to check the 4 mousetraps that we have strategically placed throughout the garage for victims.

(Let me share this with you first: since the day we moved into the house, just over a year ago, we knew we had a mouse problem out there. During our very first look in the empty garage, we saw one run across the cinder block base. We put down D-Con last fall, only to find dead mice in camping chair bags and my snowboots. This spring we purchased the reusable, covered mousetraps, filled them with peanut butter, and have disposed of no less than 20 rodents. Usually 2-3 per week.)

Back to my initial story. I didn’t see any “full” traps this week, but I did see one that had snapped shut on its side, and which looked to be dragged a couple of feet from its intended resting place. No mouse to be found.

I pinched it open to reset the trap and a HEAD fell out. Let me repeat that, ONLY A MOUSE HEAD FELL OUT. Not the body, only the head, with its bulged, beady little eyes staring at me.

At that time, Shauna came home and I requested her presense in the garage. I had the trap reset, and the head was now among the leaves that had blown in on the floor. I briefly told her where I found the trap and asked her if she could find the missing rodent. She concluded that the mouse must have escaped.

That is, until I showed her the body-less victim. Startled, but not afraid, she helped me continue the search for said body, to no avail. We finished our search by sweeping out the garage, so not only are there no leaves or mouse bodies on the floor, but also not a speck of dust.

Fun way to come home. Do mice eat other, deceased mice?

I was visiting my favorite used CD store in town the other day, looking for old and new “gems” to add to my collection. Cheapo has the largest selection, and everything is broken into categories, so you know right where to look.

As I’m on my hunt, I stumble across this CD by the artist Bon Jovi. The hipster store clerk lisped to me with his pierced tongue that they are a relatively obscure band. Great, a diamond in the rough. (more…)

My cousin Joe has always had a fascination with unique football player names. One year, when he was amused by the name R.W. McQuarters (who then played for the 49ers), his mom spent hours on the phone trying to procure a jersey for him and somehow inadvertently got connected to the 49ers coaches room.

She ended up talking to a bewildered Steve Mariucci (the head coach), who kept asking her, “HOW did you get this number?” while she politely asked if he was the person who could sell her a jersey over the phone because she had her credit card ready and everything.

The next year, during the Thanksgiving game between the Bears and Lions, Joe decided we should pick a name and all take a drink any time the announcers said it.

He picked the name Urlacher. As in Brian Urlacher - the heart and soul of the Bears. In fact, even though Urlacher was a rookie at the time, the announcers couldn’t help but gush about him, mentioning his name exactly 32987238957783 times. And this was just during the pre-game. Luckily, none of us were drinking alcohol or I’d be writing this from the grave.

The NFL is rife with unique names. Like Rex Hadnot of the Dolphins: “I thought you had it, Rex!” “HadNOT!”

Or Trent Dilfer of the 49ers, whose name is now an insulting putdown: “Seriously man, don’t be such a Dilfer.”

Or Mark Colombo of the Cowboys: “How would I know where the quarterback is? I’m not Colombo. Oh wait…”

Or Todd Weiner of the Falcons. (This is only funny to me, probably. Because I grew up in a small town whose 17 of its 20 4-H members had last names that were either Weiner, Burger or Bacon.)

But then a few weeks ago, I saw The Name. The name to top all names. The name that made me want to immediately go out and purchase the jersey, even though the player is a member of the St. Louis Rams, who I vehemently rooted against in Super Bowl XXXIV for the sole reason that I could not stand Kurt Warner’s wife.

The name is Incognito.

Richie Incognito.

How freaking cool is THAT?

INCOGNITO.

Best name ever.